


Hello Fadduh

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce is 25 years old, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Internal Dialogue As Narration, No Plot/Plotless, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Dick Grayson, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Absolutely unjustifiable fluff.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 71
Kudos: 445





	Hello Fadduh

Camp had seemed like a good idea at the time. So maybe sleepaway hadn’t been a part of Bruce’s childhood, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be part of Dick’s. It was a sort of rite of passage, wasn’t it? The cleverly named cabins in the woods and ensuing warfare, the bonfires and roasted marshmallows, the braided friendship bracelets, the afternoons spent swimming and kayaking and evenings spent telling ghost stories... Bruce might not understand the appeal beyond a conceptual level, but he wanted Dick to have what was good for him. Fun for Dick, a break for Bruce—everyone wins.

Still, he had been surprised to find himself growing nervous the closer it came to CAMP WEEK, as it was scrawled in big, red letters across the Manor’s household calendar. The _a_ was lowercase but as large as the uppercase letters, and it made Bruce smile every time he looked at it, even as his fingertips itched to correct.

Nerves quickly channeled themselves into preparedness. Bruce had stayed up for several nights, crosschecking the suggested packing list the camp had provided with other, more thorough lists he had found online. He had then taken those items and researched the best brand for each—the most ergonomic backpack, the most versatile multi-tool, the most comfortable sleeping bag, the most equipped first aid kit, and so forth—and ordered each one.

It was... strange, in retrospect. Bruce knew his own propensity to worry, to fret and stew over a thought until it took over his consciousness and focus. But he was no stranger to the untamed wilderness, nor to danger. A man could survive on his own with a knife, a firestarter, and a water bottle, and nothing else. And while Dick might not be a man, he _was_ Robin. He was far from helpless. Yet none of this prevented the Manor foyer from filling up with boxes.

Alfred had made him return all of it and take Dick shopping in town instead. Bruce had to admit (reluctantly, only to himself, and long after the fact) that maybe Alfred was right, and maybe it was better for Dick to have the agency to choose his own camping supplies. But when— _when_ , not if—that Bugs Bunny backpack zipper ripped, Dick would be glad that Bruce insisted he take the Deuter survivalist backpack as well. And he still thought Alfred was wrong to confiscate the bear mace. 

There was nothing to be worried about, Bruce tried to tell himself. It was a reputable camp with decades of stellar reviews from parents and past campers alike. He had dug into print and virtual records, done interviews, and verified references. They had not one but two fully certified medical professionals on hand to deal with injuries, a fully trained set of qualified camp counselors, a kitchen staff responsible for providing a balanced and nutritious diet...

This was the part when Bruce had paused and pinched the bridge of his nose, because even he could hear how old he sounded. Then again, he had just turned 25, which meant he was closer to 30 than 20 now, which meant he was practically halfway to dead. And taking in a kid had definitely aged him.

Dick was... Well. He was a sweet kid, of course. Smart, clever, funny, always smiling and ready with a good joke (or what he thought was a good joke, anyways.) But Bruce didn’t know a thing about raising a child. He didn’t know what had possessed him to think he did. Alfred was nearby, of course, but he had been firm from the beginning that Dick was Bruce’s responsibility and charge, not his own, which left the two of them to flounder along together.

With that in mind, it was sensible to be nervous, Bruce reasoned. Dick was Bruce’s responsibility. If he sent the boy to camp and something happened, it would be Bruce’s fault, and the carrion of Gotham’s press would descend.

Dick had talked of nothing but camp in the month leading up to the big day. He had requested only camp-themed movies and had demanded—and then quickly retracted—that Bruce teach him how to whistle, whittle, throw a horseshoe, and “do a really cool prank that no one will have heard of.” The first four requests were rescinded almost immediately as Dick decided that he wanted to have the full camp experience _at_ camp, rather than prep ahead of time. Bruce had tackled the final request with verve but had presented Dick with a prank so elaborate and complex that Dick had declared that he would wing it instead. Bruce thought this a pity. It was a very good prank.

Then the day itself had come. Alfred and Bruce had driven Dick to the drop-off point at school. Dick had immediately run off to find a few of his chums, and while Alfred had taken the bags to be loaded onto the bus, Bruce had cornered the bus chaperone for a last-minute interrogation. It was a difficult interaction to manage, since he had to play the Brucie when all he wanted was to growl and glare. But then the kids were clamoring onto the bus, and Alfred was tugging him back, and... the bus was leaving... and Dick was waving from the window...

And Bruce was left standing on the sidewalk, one hand still raised.

That had been a week ago. A week that Bruce had fully expected to fly by, as he planned to lose himself in work and tie up all those little loose ends he never seemed to have time for. There would be no interruptions, no needing to stop for homework or cries of “Bruce, Bruce, look at this, hey, look at this!” Just a quiet, peaceful home and plenty to keep him occupied.

It was the longest week of Bruce’s life.

The problem wasn’t that he was lonely. Bruce Wayne didn’t _get_ lonely. He liked his solitude. And he had Alfred. No, he wasn’t lonely. And it wasn’t that the goal of patrol was to be fun. Patrol was a duty, a sacred rite, even. But it was a little _less_ fun patrolling by himself. And while it was nice to wake up on his own, without knobby knees cannonballing into his stomach, it felt strange not to have a reason to get up, and to sip his coffee without the rhythmic clinking of a spoon across from him. And he had no one to watch movies with or to read to on a warm afternoon. And when night came again, it felt wrong to go to bed without stopping by one bedroom in particular to turn off a lamp and kiss a forehead. The feeling of incompletion, of lack, dogged him the entire week.

But now the week was over, and Bruce was driving to Dick’s school to meet the bus, and his fingers kept tapping on the armrest, because his nerves were back.

Bruce had to remind himself that, as far as he knew, camp was still a good idea. There had been no midnight calls, no emergency requests from pickup, no tearful contacts from an emergency room or a morgue. So he had had an awful week—that didn’t mean this hadn’t been the right choice for Dick. For all Bruce knew, Dick had had a wonderful time, the very best. He probably didn’t miss Bruce at all.

... He probably didn’t miss Bruce at all.

Dick probably hadn’t thought of Bruce once in the entire week, and wasn’t that fine? Wasn’t that natural? He was an exuberant, friendly kid and would have no problem making scores of friends at camp. There was no _reason_ for him to think of Bruce. Bruce wasn’t really his family, after all. Not a father, not a brother, not even an interesting uncle. They were partners, and that counted for something, but not at camp. Bruce had found a grey hair that very morning, his first. He was too old to be remembered.

Now in the school parking lot, Bruce leaned against the hood of the car and shoved his hands into his pockets. He should have just stayed in the car with Alfred, where the sideways glances from the other milling families couldn’t reach him, but he wanted Dick to be able to spot him easily. There was no Brucie here today, no easy and patently false smile. Bruce stayed hunkered behind his impenetrable sunglasses and streamlined black suit and tightly crossed arms. He was indolence personified, cool disinterest dripping from every expensively tailored line. It wasn’t enough to repel the most ravenous forever, but it was enough to hold them at bay for a little while longer, and a little while longer was all he needed.

Finally the bus arrived. The other families stirred, drawing close to surround the grey-paneled vehicle as it settled in to the drop-off. Bruce stayed where he was, ankles crossed, arms crossed, jaw working anxiously. Dick was fine. He was fine, he’d had a good time, and it was okay if he came back melancholic from leaving camp. It wasn’t personal. As long as Dick was happy—

“Bruce!”

Amid the swarm of sweaty sixth graders, a red-capped head bounced up on tiptoes and into view. A hand with a fluorescent green bandaid on one finger waved wildly. “Bruce!”

Bruce uncrossed his ankles and stood. He had only a moment to brace himself before a sweaty boy barreled out from the crowd and flung his arms around Bruce’s waist.

“Brr-uce!” Dick crowed. “I’m back! Didja miss me?”

Bruce could feel the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he returned the hug. His arms were full of a squirming sweat monster that reeked of bug spray, a deficit of soap, and clothes Alfred would likely burn, and he had never been happier.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, squatting down to Dick’s level.

“Uh-huh,” Dick said, nodding vigorously. “I caught a fish, and I learned how to whittle, and I cut my finger but it’s okay because it wasn’t too bad and Counselor Joe says that happens sometimes, and I made you stuff, and we went kayaking, and I showed everyone how to do a backflip off the rope swing only the counselors said we couldn’t do that anymore, and—”

“Alright, take a breath,” Bruce interrupted with a soft chuckle and a squeeze to Dick’s shoulder. “It sounds like you had a good week. Are you glad you went?”

Dick nodded again. “Yeah. I didn’t think I would be. The first night was awful, really awful.”

“Was it?”

“Uh-huh.” Dick’s nose wrinkled and he ducked his head, hiding his face with the brim of his hat. “Maybe I cried some. Not a lot. No one saw or anything. Just... I missed you and Alfred an awful lot. Like, a _lot_ a lot.”

Oh.

Bruce cleared his throat of the strange and mysterious lump that had arisen and pulled Dick into another hug. “Well, we missed you, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dick sighed into the hug before pulling back. He sniffed, just once, and pulled his ballcap from his head as he wiped his face with his forearm.

The words were out of Bruce’s mouth before he could catch them. “ _Richard_ , what happened to your hair?”

Dick’s curls, damp and plastered to his skull, ended abruptly at the tips of his ears. The rest of his head had been buzzed to the scalp.

Dick froze, then grinned sheepishly. “Oh. Right,” he said, digging around in his back pocket to pull out a wadded sheet of paper. “I kinda forgot to take out my gum before I went to bed. It was a whole thing. You gotta sign this.”

Bruce took the paper, likely documentation of the _please don’t sue us_ variety, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Alfred had exited the car when the bus arrived and was now returning with Dick’s bags.

“Gum,” Bruce explained by way of greeting, turning Dick by the shoulders to face Alfred.

“Good heavens,” Alfred muttered, then added, “Hullo, my boy. Have a good time, did we?”

“Sure did! ‘m glad camp is only once a year, though.” Dick reached for, and was handed, his Bugs Bunny backpack. To Bruce’s disappointment, it still appeared to be intact.

“Oh?” Bruce asked.

Dick, backpack slung over his shoulder, had already clambered onto the hood of the car and then up onto Bruce’s back. He would be too big for this soon enough, but right now, his chin rested perfectly on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce could feel his jaw move as he smiled.

“Yup. You need me around, big guy.”

Bruce couldn’t argue with that.

“Shall we?” Alfred opened the back door for them.

Bruce grabbed Dick from his back, twisting the giggling boy around, into his arms, and then into the back seat.

“Take us home, Alfred,” Bruce agreed over the shrieks.

Once the door shut, the car filled with Dick’s nonstop chatter as he attempted to tell a week’s worth of stories in one breath. Gone was the quiet solitude of the previous week. Bruce smiled and settled back in his seat to enjoy the ride and the company.

**Author's Note:**

> Title come from the classic song "Camp Grenada." I have zero justification for this little fic-ish thing other than 1) I am stuck on The Return, and 2) I miss my dad.


End file.
